


Miami Device

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [8]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adventure, Buddy Cop Drama, Clint is good at boats, Does anyone remember Miami Vice?, Jan Hammer on loop for like weeks not kidding, M/M, fast boats, kind of a love letter to the Florida Keys, seduction by silk necktie, the 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: Clint Barton, Miami-Dade detective (Vice), has been deep undercover as a member of notorious weapons-smuggler Augustus daSilva's crew for so long that the neon-soaked underworld of Miami's mean streets are starting to feel like home.Worse, he thinks he may be falling for one of daSilva's best customers: the mysterious Philip Coleman—arms dealer, player, purveyor of stolen merchandise, and total bastard.Is Clint falling further into darkness or is this his path back into the light?





	Miami Device

**Author's Note:**

> For the Imagine Clint/Coulson prompt: In a slightly different universe they ended up in different alphabet agencies/police force. They meet and fall for each other while both are undercover. Who figures out first that the other is a cop/agent too and how?

Club Miami, one of the most exclusive bars on the eastern seaboard, was a multi-story mansion raised on stilts driven deep into the shallow sand flats on the edge of Biscayne Bay. It sat out in the Atlantic like a glittering jewel, exactly one mile off the coast of Miami, Florida, and was only accessible by private boat.

Philip Coleman, arms dealer, player, purveyor of "rare" (read, stolen) merchandise and _total bastard,_ inhabited notorious drug-smuggler Augustus daSilva's private booth at the club like he owned the damn place.

Untouched by the sweaty clamour around him, one strong, long-fingered hand idly caressing his drink (the thick-cut crystal glass holding a $200 pour of single malt from daSilva's private reserve), Coleman radiated a cool, cultivated arrogance that was laced with just a hint of thrilling cruelty. It was acting like catnip on the other guests at daSilva's table.

Clint Barton, Miami-Dade detective (Vice), and deep undercover for the past eight months as a member of daSilva's crew, _fucking hated this guy_.

Around Clint the deafening throb of the million-dollar sound system pounded on with an auto-tuned remix of _What's Love Got to Do With It_ on maybe its fiftieth loop. It was 80s night and the place was wall-to-wall party animals in their shabby-chic best—amped on artisan cocktails, a dizzying array of illegal pharmaceuticals, and the greedy, delicious knowledge that they'd gotten into one of the most select clubs in Miami.

Servers squeezed through the crush of bodies in a flash of sequins and feathers, edging through the crowd with trays filled with thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and martinis that glinted with flecks of gold leaf in vodka specially flown in from Lviv.

The club played host to the glitterati of south Florida; sports stars, actors, politicians and artists rubbed elbows with younger scions of some of the oldest families in the southeast, sowing their wild oats before they settled into their trust funds and got too respectable to blow entire weekends out on the water indulging in one sin after another. Transplants from all over South America and the Caribbean—tycoons, business people, celebrities—mingled with warlords who'd gotten fat off the drug trade, former generals in exile, smugglers, rogues, and renegades.

If just getting in to Club Miami was a near impossibility, taking a seat at Augustus daSilva's private booth was even more of a get. The booth was raised above the level of the floor in a sweeping curve like an open, bleeding heart, deep red leather seats set against half-walls of faceted mirror edged with neon. To the public daSilva was an extraordinarily successful businessman in import/export. It was an effective cover for the vast smuggling operation he ran, with hooks into major ports all over eastern US. He'd made his fortune in the drug trade, but now he trafficked in whatever the vice du jour was, recently having all but cornered the supply lines for stolen tech—specifically weapons.

And not just the garden-variety cheap pistols that flowed back and forth across the borders into the hands of skinny teenagers and two-bit gang-bangers, but the elite high-tech stuff that would cost well above the annual salary of a Dade County cop like Clint.

daSilva sat in the middle of his booth like a king on his throne. With him were two of his top lieutenants, an array of stunningly beautiful prostitutes, several local movers and shakers, and, of course, that asshole Coleman.

Coleman had a few bodyguards with him, the usual variety of discreet muscle, thick necks and broad cut suits, weapons well-concealed, standing watchfully behind the booth. daSilva's own bodyguards and backup—including Clint—were arrayed throughout the club.

Coleman wore black—he always wore black—his bespoke Brioni suit flowed slick over his broad shoulders, the fabric reflecting the gaudy neon of the club like oil on water. The silk of the tie at his throat was a crimson so deep it was almost black, a narrow strip of hellfire against the silver-grey of his shirt. Every time Clint'd seen him—and Coleman had been daSilva's best customer for almost two months now—it the same dark suit, smoke-grey shirt, crimson tie; like a uniform.

There was the brilliant flash of a diamond in his ear; it sparked and fretted as he turned his head to smile at something daSilva was saying, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Strong jaw, a hard profile, mouth set in a cruel, unyielding line, the bridge of his nose misaligned—broken and badly reset—the remnant of a hard-scrabble past that no one would ever know anything about.

Coleman's eyes were shadowed in the moving dark of the club, but Clint thought they might be blue in sunlight. He wondered if—

There was a hard tap on his shoulder. “I can hear your teeth grinding, compadre,” Costas leaned in to shout over the music. He gave Clint a wry look.

Clint mentally shook himself. _Stop staring, Barton, you've got a job to do._

Two months ago Coleman had surfaced in Miami and quickly built a reputation as a dealer with endlessly deep pockets for stolen tech—specifically weaponry—the more destructive, the more exclusive, the more expensive and the more illegal the better. If you had something that could level half a city Phil Coleman wanted it.

No one knew what he did with the arsenal he was rapidly putting together and no one cared. His money was good, he had a certain code as a criminal for fair-dealing (that thing that happened in Key Biscayne was only a rumour) and he sort of classy'd up the place with his expensive suits and champagne tastes. He got invited to all the best parties in the smuggler set and he'd quickly become one of Augustus daSilva's best customers.

Clint cut a glance at Costas and tried to relax his jaw. He'd would absolutely take Coleman down when he exposed and arrested daSilva. He wondered how the man would look in the orange jumpsuit of a Dade County correctional facility. How smug he'd be then. Yeah, he'd take Coleman down, he'd take all of them all down, even Costas, who, honestly wasn't a bad dude for a hustler and a gang-banger… _Jesus_ , he'd been undercover in daSilva's gang for too long if he was starting to think like that…

No, cleaning out this stinking rat's nest of smooth, smug criminals, laughing and drinking and spending money they'd stolen and killed for was what he'd spent his entire career as a Miami vice cop doing. And this mission was going to be his biggest bust yet.

Clint had made sure his position tonight had clear sight-lines to the booth itself. Although they'd picked up on his partial deafness when he was inducted into the gang, he hadn't exactly shared his carefully-cultivated ability to read lips, or that fact that his eyesight was very, very good.

daSilva was famous for his ability to mix business with pleasure and tonight was no different. He turned away from the hooker at his side and narrowed all of his attention on Coleman. Clint tried to look like he was watching the exits rather than staring surreptitiously through lowered lashes at the booth.

“Always — pleasure — see you, — friend,” da Silva was mostly saying.

“Thank you,” Coleman was as polite and direct as always. He placed a leather case on the table. “If — (probably) discuss — my guns?”

daSilva's grin was sharklike. "Oh I have — better —night, something… _exclusive_."

Coleman raised his eyebrows slightly.

"— heard of — the 'Miami Device?'"

Coleman shook his head minutely. Looked like he was intrigued but maybe trying to hide it.

"— then, I have — treat for —"daSilva grinned wider and leaned forward, then abruptly frowned and held up a hand, reaching for something in his jacket. Coleman's bodyguards stiffened. daSilva pulled a phone from an inside pocket, frowned deeply at the caller ID, then jammed a finger in his other ear, tucked his head and listened intently. The conversation went on for some time. Clint waited, his focus riveted on the booth.

Slowly, purposefully, Coleman turned his head and looked directly at him. His stare was heavy and open and as unapologetic as a jungle cat stalking prey. As if Clint were entirely his to be examined and assessed. The sheer audacity of his laden, unwavering stare froze Clint in place, made his breath catch in his throat. Coleman tilted his head slightly and lifted his glass. He let his eyes slide slowly down Clint's body as he raised the amber liquor to his lips and took a deep, long sip, his gaze raking up the return trip from Clint's shoes to linger on his lips. Clint watched the dip of his Adam's apple in the long column of his neck as he swallowed, then lowered the drink slowly to the table. Languidly, almost absently, Coleman let his spread fingers rest agains the rim of the heavy crystal of the glass. Then stroked down slowly once, deliberately. Clint could almost feel the weight of it, the warm silky feel of that caress. Coleman caught his eyes again and quirked one side of his lips upward in a tiny, feral smirk. Then he dismissively, arrogantly, turned away.

 _What the hell was that??_ Clint felt stunned humiliation like a metallic taste in his mouth. His cheeks burned. He shifted to make more room in the crotch of his jeans.

daSilva thumbed off the phone and sighed, placing it back in his jacket. “— with the — change — regret — (maybe) inconvenience,” he said.

Coleman leaned in, brows drawn down, displeased. The wanton collection of expensive bottles on the table blocked Clint’s view of his lips but he was clearly disagreeing with something daSilva was saying.

Finally both men leaned back. Coleman slid out of the booth first, dislodging a senator and two prostitutes with a curt apology. daSilva slid out the other side. A couple of their bodyguards accompanied them to a quieter spot, near a side exit. The enormous bouncer standing at the door eyed them dispassionately as they continued their conversation. Coleman was clearly unhappy and daSilva's body language was conciliatory. Then daSilva abruptly turned and looked over at Clint. He snapped his fingers and pointed to his side.

Clint blinked. As a recent recruit, occupying a position firmly on the low end of the totem pole, his interactions with daSilva had been limited to occasionally holding open a door for him when he got out of the Lexus. He drove the guy's boats and stood around looking menacing and that was about it.

He slowly raised a hand, pointed at his chest and mouthed 'me?'

daSilva sighed and looked heaven-ward. He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

Clint hurried over and stood at the gangsta equivalent of parade rest, expression carefully neutral. daSilva gave him an eye roll before he turned back to Coleman.

Coleman's face was as expressionless as ever but he radiated a palpable air of annoyance. "This was not a part of our arrangement, Mr daSilva," he said.

"Okay, I know, I get that," daSilva replied. "But my supplier wants to meet his best customer. That's exactly what he said, he said 'Augustus, I want to meet my best customer.' And you don't say 'no' to The Octopus."

"The Octopus," Coleman said flatly.

"Yes, well, I wouldn't laugh if I were you, alright? 'Cause he's just a little…uh—" daSilva leaned in and mouthed the word 'crazy' with a wide-eyed, furtive look. "But he's also the kingpin around here for all the delicious candy you like, Coleman, you dog you. And it's an honor to be invited to his private island, okay? Like, _I've_ never been invited."

Clint didn't miss the bitterness in daSilva's voice.

"So, it's no big, okay? My man Clint here will take you. Hell of a captain, native son, knows all the channels and what the buoy-thingies mean and everything. Hell of a shooter too, can't seem to miss. Six foot three of rugged blonde perfection, yes? Lookit those arms, they're like the Venus de Milo of arms. Meow."

Clint tried not to boggle at being addressed with such easy familiarly by the man he'd being trying—unsuccessfully— to get close enough to prosecute for almost eight months. 

The Venus de Milo famously doesn't have arms," Coleman said.

"Whatever. One of my boats is tied up out back. You go meet The Octopus and make him happy and then everyone will be happy and Clint de Milo will have you back here by closing time, yeah? Our business will then conclude just as we'd previously negotiated. This is only, like, a tiny delay. So tiny. Think of it as a charming moonlight ride. Take some cocktails with you." daSilva snapped his fingers at one of the men lurking at his back. "Andy, go get these guys some cocktails. And some snacks. Go! Go! We're on the clock!"

He turned back to Coleman, said conspiratorially, "although you won't really need snacks. It's only, like, less than an hour to Soldier Key." He turned to Clint. "You're going to Soldier Key, by the way. But if he asks, tell The Octopus everyone is calling it Octopus Key now. He likes that."

Coleman frowned. "Mr daSilva…"

"No!" daSilva snapped. " _Listen_. He was supposed to have his people deliver the thing I told you about—the Miami Device— _here_. And he _will_. But only after he's met you, okay? You don't freakin' negotiate with The Octopus, Coleman. You want your weird alien gun you have to go met him. Leave the money, go be charming to my boss, have a nice boat ride with Clint, and meet me back here for champagne by last call. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Coleman sighed. He exchanged a few words with his bodyguards, then followed one of daSilva's people out the side-door toward the dock. Clint trailed after, every instinct tingling at how wrong this all was. The door slammed shut behind him and the music and noise shut off abruptly, only the thump of the bass still audible from outside. Clint took a big lungful of salt air to flush out the club's cloying mixture of sweat and cologne and alcohol and lust. 

The big, sleek boat waiting at the end of the pier was a classic smuggler's cigarette boat. It bobbed and fretted on the gentle current like a thoroughbred scenting a race, anxious at her tether. Her gleaming paint reflected the full moon overhead and the gaudy splash of neon from the club.

Out on the water the night was all soft tropical warmth and air rich with the scent of the sea. The city lights of Miami glistened on the horizon and the Atlantic ocean stretched out on their left-hand side, dark and empty and vast. Cloud-to-cloud lightning from a thunderstorm somewhere out there beyond the horizon flashed intermittently and the breeze that came off the ocean was wet and warm and smelled like ozone. A fitful breath of wind blew Coleman's tie behind him as he climbed into the passenger side of the boat.

Clint climbed in the skipper, checked the disposition of the dash and pulled the comm units/ear protection out of storage. He passed a set to Coleman who inserted them into his ear with practiced ease. As daSilva's men bustled about the dock getting the boat ready, Clint snuck a glance at Coleman's stony profile, the ocean breeze ruffling his immaculate hair, the sparkling lights of Miami behind him. He swallowed and looked away.

One of the men gave the boat a gentle shove away from the dock and waved an 'okay' at Clint. The twin 550s turned over with a bubbling growl and he eased them out into the channel. 

 

***

 

They came out of the flats and hit the deeper water of the bay. Clint checked the props were clear, nudged the boat's nose due south, then opened up the throttle and let her run. As the miles ticked past he let the clear night sky and the hot rush of the wind push the misery of his current existence out of his consciousness. He'd been undercover with the sludge of Miami's underworld for so long he sometimes thought he'd never feel clean again. But when he was out on the water in one of the fast boats he could let the roar of the engines and the hard push of the wind strip his mind of everything else. Racing down the bay was almost like flying—a bright moon overhead and the sparking, fizzing lights of Miami a blur on the horizon, it was all kinda perfect.

He caught a glimpse of Coleman out of the corner of his eye. The man's face was relaxed, a slight smile of simple enjoyment on his lips, his eyes narrow against the spray kicked up by the bow. It was the first time Clint had seen that particular expression on him. He hadn't realized Coleman could even look like that. 

Clint sighted the deep channel marker and relaxed, basically letting the boat drive itself with light touches on the wheel. All he had to do for the next half hour or so was keep her headed due south and enjoy the ride. But that thing with Coleman back in the club was nagging at him like a mosquito bite that you couldn't help scratching. He chewed on his bottom lip. What the hell, he decided, he'd never been any good at subtlety. He touched the comm system on.

"So, uh, Coleman?"

The man ignored him completely.

"Hey, is your mic working, can you hear me?

Coleman wet his lips, pulling himself out of whatever contented reverie he'd been inhabiting. "You have a question?"

"Yeah, so, back in the bar…" Clint suddenly wished he hadn't started this but _oh well_. "Why'd you look at me like that?"

"I can't look at people?"

"You can look at people. Sure. I mean, but…do you _look_ look at everyone…like _that_?"

"Like 'that?' Like what?"

"Like you were … like you want… like…"

"Like…?"

Coleman was looking at him. He was clearly enjoying watching Clint squirm.

"You know what, never mind and also, fuck _you_."

Coleman's smirk was infuriating. "Ohh. _That_." He barely raised one shoulder in what could have been the tiniest of shrugs and turned his head to look out over the water. If Clint could've stopped the boat and strangled him to death without endangering an eight month operation he would have done it.

The boat caught a bad swell and bounced with a vengeance. Clint shortened his grip, nudged her a little west. Resolved to never bring this topic up _ever_ again.

"You're safe from me," Coleman said eventually, "I don't sleep with cops."

All the air rushed out of Clint's lungs. He felt like he'd been punched. "What did you just say?!"

Coleman did actually shrug this time.

"How—?" Clint tried to get his breathing under control.

"Little things. There if you look. Career cops always have tells no matter how good they play at being undercover. The way you stand, the way you move. How you wear your gun. The shoes you're wearing. Your outraged sense of justice. Your face is more expressive than you realize."

"I'm not a fucking cop! You're wrong!"

"I'm not wrong. You asked why I looked at you. I wasn't just admiring the view."

Clint felt a stab of disappointment, was appalled at himself, and angrily dismissed the feeling as insane. It was easy enough in the swirl of emotion buffeting him, knowing his cover'd been blown. He shifted his grip on the wheel, inching his fingers closer to the pistol at his hip. He couldn't shoot Coleman in cold blood, but he wasn't gonna go down without a fight.

Coleman snorted. "I'm not going to attack you. I want my gun. You're driving the boat."

Clint wished he were a little more reassured by that, but given the man's apparently endless competence, Coleman could probably drive the boat just fine. Of course, he didn't know where they were going… Clint tried to calm his racing heart. To think. "So what are you going to do?"

"Do?"

"Don't fucking play me, Coleman! If you out me to daSilva—"

"daSilva already knows."

Clint felt like he'd been punched. _Again_. "You…he—"

"Did you honestly think he picked you for this little mission at random?

"Yes! I mean...I don't—"

"He sent both of us out here to die," Coleman said calmly, like he was talking about the weather. "He thinks the mysterious Octopus has more in mind than a simple meet-and-greet. And while he's slightly put out he won't be getting anymore of my business, he's obviously terrified of his supplier and won't oppose him."

They braced themselves as they hit another swell. The boat levelled out, roared on.

"He'll console himself for his loss with the money I left behind, I suppose. In the meantime he saw a way to rid himself of a troublesome undercover cop in a way that blame won't resolve to him and he took it. Clever, really."

Clint sputtered. "If you knew all this then why the hell did you agree to—?"

Coleman's face went hard. "I told you. I want that gun in my custody. And I don't intend to die tonight."

Coleman's grim confidence sent a little shiver along Clint's spine. He fought down an almost instinctual urge to trust the man, forcibly reminding himself that Coleman was a scumbag dealer, a criminal. Still, what were his options right now? Maybe he could get something incriminating on daSilva or Coleman or The Octopus tonight. Something—anything—that would let him look back on the last eight months as something more than an agonising waste of time and resources. Of his life.

Clint made a decision, took a deep breath.

"Alright, okay, so saying I go along with this…what—what happens now? Do you have a plan?"

"I have a plan," Coleman said simply and turned away to stare over the water at the lights of Miami.

 

***

 

Clint cut the engines and let momentum carry the boat into dock. Other than a single light at the end of the pier it was pitch black out here, far from the desperate noise of Club Miami, equally far from the lights of the city. Soldier Key was a speck of land south of Key Biscayne, easily missed even in daylight. But Clint had been raised on the water and knew the boat-ways like the back of his hand. He'd been to Soldier Key a couple of times on runs for daSilva and found the jutting pier that was almost longer than the island itself without trouble.

It was a little weird there was no one at the pier to meet them. Clint climbed out on the bow as the boat glided in and leapt nimbly to the pier with the mooring line, cinching it around the dock bollard with practiced ease.

As the boat stilled the noise of the Florida woodlands pushed into the silence; a steady drone of cicada, the rhythmic grunting of frogs, the low, dim buzz of billions of insects. Clint realized all at once how much he had missed this while pretending to be a gangster. He sighed deeply then bent down without thinking to offer Coleman a hand out of the boat. Coleman looked up at him speculatively for a heartbeat, then took his hand and let Clint hoist him up. His grip was warm and firm and strong and Clint registered callouses on the man's palm that could only be made by the regular use of a gun.

He was close. Clint inhaled the musky, spicy scent of his expensive cologne, the rich salt smell of the ocean on his skin. It smelled good, like…

"If I could just have my hand back." Coleman's look was wry.

Clint started and dropped his grip. _Shit, Barton, what the hell are you doing?_  

Coleman glanced around at the shadowed woods, black and grey in the moonlight. "Which way?"

Clint cleared his throat, hoping it was too dark for Coleman to see the blush he felt heating his cheeks. "They, uh, never let us go up to the house by ourselves. I guess we'd better wait till someone comes."

Coleman nodded.

The noises of insects swelled and ebbed around them. Out to sea the distant flash of lightning on the horizon was followed by trailing thunder, almost at the edge of hearing. The aroma of ocean and swamp and rich green life—all the growing, striving intensity of a hot Florida night—pressed in around them, moonlight marking bold patterns on the water. The boat bobbed lazily, making tiny squeaks against the old tire fenders of the dock. Coleman cocked an eyebrow and looked at him thoughtfully.

"What do you know about ties?" he asked.

He'd never heard Coleman speak so softly. Usually he was shouting over the music at one club or another, or barking orders at his guards, or, like the trip over on the boat, mic’ed and artificial. This voice was quiet and deep and a little raspy. It was comforting and kinda warm, like a…blanket or something. This voice didn't really go with the shiny shoes and the diamond earring, Clint thought.

“Um…I guess, I’m not really a tie guy? I have one but someone else tied it and I just sort of slide it open to put it on when I have to go to court…"

“Do you know how to untie them?”

“I—"

Coleman reached for Clint's hands, closed warm fingers around them and brought them to his neck.

"There is a way to do it properly," he murmured, guiding Clint's hands to tug the tie slowly to one side then the other, gently easing the knot. "Like this," he said, the bottom of his jaw just brushing Clint's fingers.

"It's important to take good care of your things," he said. "Don't you think?"

Clint supposed he agreed with this on principle but couldn't recall anything he actually owned that would require the emotional investment he suddenly had in taking off Coleman's tie properly. He managed to make some mumble of assent.

Coleman adjusted his hold on Clint's hands. "A tie is not merely decorative," he said, "they're a useful tool. They can indicate status, signal confidence, demand respect. Trajan's column in Rome depicts legionnaires wearing them as badges of honor for heroism in battle."

Clint had lost track of what Coleman was saying, registering only the raspy rumble of the man's voice in his chest, the hypnotic cadence of his speech blending with the night sounds of the deep woods around them. Coleman slid his fingers down to Clint's wrists, shifted the position of his hands again, arranging Clint's hands just the way he wanted them.

"Take the long end in hand first, like this," he said, "now slide it out gently, use your thumb, good. And back through the gap, yes, just like that, you're doing very well. Now pull, like this—"

Coleman placed Clint's hands on either side of the tie and tugged it gently apart, letting Clint's knuckles trail down the strong expanse of his chest.

Coleman dropped his hands. "See?" Clint nodded, a little dizzy. "Now if you unfasten the top button, here—" Coleman touched the collar of his shirt, "you can pull the tie out easily." He waited, endlessly patient, as Clint's brain tried desperately to catch up. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled the smooth shell button through the embroidered buttonhole. The collar of the shirt parted. Clint stared numbly at the hollow of Coleman's throat, bit down on his lower lip. "Good," Coleman whispered, "very good." Clint slipped the tie out of the loosened collar, held the heavy silk in his hands, aware that his breathing was shallow and too fast.

Coleman plucked the tie efficiently out of his hands. "Thanks," he said and smirked as he took two steps back. Clint instinctually swayed forward, repressed an urge to reach out for him. He clasped his hands together to still the shiver that went through him and tried to even out his breath.

Coleman had seemingly forgotten him. He neatly turned the tie around his finger into a little roll and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. He shrugged the jacket off and turned to lay it across the companion seat in the boat.

Clint had known he was carrying. Of course he was carrying. But he hadn't quite been prepared for the sight of the black leather gun harness that criss-crossed high and snug over Coleman's broad back. Or the way the silk of his shirt pulled tight underneath it. Or how he could sort of see the shift and play of muscle under the closely tailored silk of the shirt now that his jacket was off, holy crap…

Coleman straightened and turned around. Clint realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it with a snap and almost choked on his own spit. Coleman's eyes twinkled in the moonlight. He smiled—a small smile, but a genuine one, teasing, playful—using mostly his eyes. Clint felt a little light-headed, like he wasn't getting enough air. He couldn't stop himself, he smiled back.

Behind them the piercing light of high-powered torches came bobbling along the path they could just now make out beyond the pier. Two armed men emerged noisily from the woods.

"This way," one grunted. The other one tossed a torch at Clint who caught it and switched it on.

Clint fell in behind Coleman as they followed the men into the woods. The man's confident, swaggering walk was familiar. Clint was annoyed with himself when he couldn't find the anger that had flared every time he'd seen it before. He kept his eyes on Coleman's wide shoulders and _definitely_ did _not_ check out his ass. Well...a lot.

They walked for probably ten minutes before they saw lights. At the end of the path was a classic Cracker mansion, two stories, deep eaves, a wide wrap-a-round porch. Harsh floodlights lit the grounds around the house and cast sharp shadows on the hard features of mercenaries lounging about the porch, playing cards, swiping through their phones, drinking.

"Wait here," their guide said and tromped up the wide stairs into the house. The screen door banged shut as he disappeared inside.

Clint shot Coleman a look. The man's face was set and expressionless, focused, waiting.

The screen door squealed open, held diffidently by one of the many mercs, and a man emerged. He stopped wide-legged on the spacious porch, clasping his hands behind his back. Clint had long since become immune to the many ridiculous ways men in the drug trade decorated themselves to display dominance and provoke fear. But this was something else. The man was tall, his light-colored hair close-cropped, and he was dressed much like the rest of his gang. Except he wasn't wearing a shirt, and Clint was pretty sure the others didn't have a tattoo like _that_. Big, densely-inked octopus's tentacles emerged from the man's trousers, looping and curling up his body, over his torso. The massive black-inked bulbous head of the beast covered a quarter of his upper chest but instead of the floppy alien features of a real octopus the face was a human skull with a wide sinister grin. 

"Mr Coleman," he said, "thank you for accepting my invitation. Those who fear me call me The Octopus, but my friends call me Klein. And I do hope we can be friends." He flicked his chin at Clint. "And this is?"

"He drove the boat, he works for daSilva," Coleman said. The Octopus' eyes roved over him once. Dismissed him. Clint felt the sting of not being introduced by Coleman and his apparently invisibility to Klein. It was a clear reminder that in this world he was small fish, expendable. In his own world he was… well, alright, maybe it wasn't that different, actually. He sometimes wondered if anyone would even miss him if he didn't make it back from one of these missions. He suppressed the old, too familiar feeling of not being enough, focused on stealthily noting the men around him, their positions.

"Join me for a drink?"

Coleman tilted his head. "Of course," he said pleasantly, following Klein into the house. The merc shut the screen door firmly behind them.

Clint wandered up to the porch. 'What're you guys playing?" The group of mercs ignored him completely, continued to slap down dirty cards on an old table. One of them very deliberately patted the pistol on her hip.

"Ooh-kay," Clint said and leaned as casually as he could against the porch railing. It looked like something bigger and weirder than anyone realized was going on out here in the bay. Among the usual detritus of trash and crates of empty beer bottles stacked on the porch he kept seeing the Octopus' tattoo in odd places. Pinned to some of the merc's shirts, etched into gun grips and rigs, branded (whoa!) into the wood of the door. He concentrated on committing as much of what he could see to memory so he could take it all back to the precinct. Assuming he survived the night.

A deafening, staccato burst of semi-automatic weapon's fire shattered the silence. The door burst outward and Coleman came through it in a roll, a pistol in one hand, a small case in the other, firing back into the house methodically. He tucked and came to his feet just in time to get his legs under him and leap off the porch, hitting the ground without breaking stride.

“Clint!” he called without slowing down, heading for the woods.

The stunned mercenaries jerked into motion at about the same time Clint did. Two men barrelled out of the house, both firing at Coleman's rapidly retreating form. Clint took his opportunity, one-armed himself over the railing and body-checked the man closest to him, who crashed into the other one, the pistol tracing an arc of bullets straight up into the roof of the porch as they both went ass-over-heels.

Clint watched in vicious satisfaction as the pair flailed into the mercs playing cards on the porch and the whole lot of them went down along with the table and chairs, smashing through the railing and into the thick hedge of azalea bushes surrounding the porch. He couldn’t repress a grin.

The other mercs looked aghast at him—as if they’d just suddenly remembered he was there. There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Bye," Clint said as regained his feet, flipped on his torch and took off in a sprint for the dock.

Some fifteen meters down the path he passed Coleman who was having to stumble his way by memory through the dark. He didn't even slow down as he raced the rest of the way, pounded onto the pier and leapt into the boat, jerking the ignition on. The boats twin 550s roared into life. "Line! Line!" Clint screamed at Coleman, who'd emerged from the woods at a dead run. 

Coleman slid into the bollard, shouted "Catch!" at exactly the same time he lobbed the case he was carrying directly at Clint, who got up a hand to intercept it just before it smacked into his forehead. He shoved the case into storage under the wheel and straightened just as Coleman cast the line into the boat and jumped in after it. Clint pushed the throttle forward hard and staggered back as the cigarette leapt away from the dock with a deep-throated cry just as The Octopus's men pounded en masse out of the woods, guns blazing.

"That was your plan??" Clint yelled over the scream of the engines as bullets pinged into the water all around them.

"It worked, didn't it?" Coleman yelled back, scrabbling into the companion seat. His grin was as big as Clint's, eyes sparkling.

"You're fucking nuts, you know that?" Clint laughed, risking a glance over his shoulder. The Octopus' men were arrayed along the line of the pier, firing indiscriminately. He couldn't tell whether he was flattered or angry that Coleman had just assumed he could trust him to do his part but he didn't have time to untangle that now. They were more or less sitting ducks until he could clear the channel and swerve out into the deeper water of the bay. He was already going as fast as he could without risk of grounding the boat.

It'll be okay, he thought, it was dark and they were a moving target and the mercs only had hand-weapons. As long as no one had had time to grab anything higher-powered with infrared or a laser scope they'd be fine—

Clint saw the crimson dot from a laser-sight appear on Coleman's back just as he turned around. Without conscious thought he covered the man, shoving him down into the seat, struggling to maintain his grip on the wheel, arm outstretched. The retort of the big gun was indistinguishable from the rest of the arms fire from the dock but Clint knew what the bright, sudden blaze of agony in his shoulder meant. In the same instant the boat cleared the channel and Clint jerked the wheel hard to starboard, putting a forested cut of land between them and the mercs on the pier.

Coleman's face was shocked and pale below him, struggling to get up out of the seat as Clint's knees gave out and he collapsed against him, his hand slipping off the wheel. The boat spun in a sickening half circle as it spent its momentum, propellors cutting deep into the water, engines choking and sputtering as the wake caught up with them, threatened to swamp them.

Clint had one glimpse of Coleman's startled upturned face, his eyes wide and dark and concerned, before the man burst into action. Clint found himself flipped and seated in the companion as Coleman clambered over him into the skipper seat. He checked the controls, centered the throttle, reached for his jacket and balled it into a thick pad that he pressed against Clint's bleeding shoulder. He shook out the tie and secured the jacket against the mess of Clint's shoulder.

"I told you ties were useful," Coleman gritted, tight-lipped, as he fumbled though storage for coms, shoved one into Clint's ear, one into his own. Clint tried to laugh but it hurt so he just sort of burbled something. The whole thing was pretty funny really. He closed his eyes.

Coleman placed one big hand on the side of Clint's head, gave him a little shake. "Clint. Clint! Stay with me! East! Which way?" he demanded, his voice rough but his grip gentle.

Clint blearily looked around for landmarks, familiar lights. He spotted what he thought might be the Cape Florida Light, looked around for familiar channel markers, the faint glimmer of light on the horizon that might be Miami at this distance. He waved a sluggish hand vaguely behind them.

Coleman let him go, gunned the engines, bracing himself against the skipper seat, then pushed the throttle full forward. The boat spun around as the twin props dug into the warm water of the bay and they shot forward into darkness.

 

***

 

Clint came to with a face-full of salt spray as the boat took a hard bounce. The thrumming of the engines was all around him, the sky black overhead and Coleman's voice was in his ear. He was speaking low and urgently to…nothing? Not to him. He had his phone out, the dim green light of the screen casting a harsh shadow over his features, his profile distinct against the sickly light, the other hand gripping the wheel, the wind full in his face.

It was the only bright light Clint could see anywhere in any direction from where he was slumped down in the companion seat, except for their running lights and the pale cold moon overhead. He recognised the particular bounce of the cigarette at top speed against the chop of the open Atlantic. The pounding of the boat as it crested and smacked down on the underside of each swell should hurt. It didn't. He knew that was a bad sign.

"Coleman," Clint mumbled into the mic. "Where'r we going…there’s nothing out here." 

"There’s something out here. Stay awake. Just a little farther."

Coleman’s voice was calm, so calm. But Clint had already stopped worrying. This was the stupidest possible end to his life, he thought. Bleeding out on the floor of a smuggler's boat, heading pointlessly out into the Atlantic, having been shot saving the life of a unrepentant felon. He felt the urge to giggle. Or cry.

His father had run one of these boats when he was a kid. His old man had been a deadbeat and an abusive alcoholic but he could sure as shit could drive a boat. He didn't have much on Coleman, though, Clint thought, staring up. He was piloting the cigarette like a bat out of hell, wide-legged stance braced against the dropped bolster of the skipper seat, at one with the thrust and slam of the waves, his gaze rock-steady on some spot in the far distance.

At the top of a crest Clint caught a glimpse of the far distant lights of the eastern seaboard on their left, crawling by at a steady pace. They must have turned north at some point to parallel the coast. Overhead the stars didn't move at all, indifferent as to whether Clint lived or died, his lifeblood mixing with the couple of centimeters of seawater washing bow to stern with the rocking motion of the boat.

The twin 550-hp Mercury EFIs screamed at full throttle. Coleman had opened them all the way up and they were doing 60 knots easy and would have gone faster but for the chop, but even then it was a suicidal pace out on the open ocean. The salt spray blowing back from the bow felt like icy needles stabbing his skin. Clint drifted.

His dad's boat had been second-hand but still a contender back when there were a few oldsters left still calling them 'run-runners.' The cigarette boats plied the trade between the Caribbean and Miami, bringing in drugs and cigarettes and any other contraband small enough to transport at speed.

It was after his old man had been arrested for the third time that Clint had decided to become a cop, listening to his mother cry downstairs, the wail of his little sister, hungry and confused. To protect and to serve—those words had an easy, clear meaning to a child of eight who spent too many nights wondering if his old man would come home, dreading it when he did, cowering in small spaces, listening to his mother's pleading sobs. 'Police,' he remembered, from 'polis,' the ancient Greek word for city. Policeman—a man of the city, a man sworn to shield the weak, the powerless; to keep the city running, to protect it.

How far from his childhood naiveté that path had led him. He'd traded his life tonight for a criminal who'd be back to exploiting the vulnerable and defenseless as soon as he'd cleaned Clint's blood off his expensive shoes. Clint stared up at Coleman's profile and wondered why he'd done it. He clutched the man's balled up silk jacket to his shoulder, trying to keep pressure on the wound, knowing it was useless. The fine material was slick with blood, black in the moonlight.

"M'not gonna make it," Clint mumbled into the mic. "You mi' as well slow this thing down."

"You're going make it," Coleman said, his lips tight, his eyes hard and sharp on the horizon. "Rest. Don't talk."

"M' not. And fuck you I'll talk if I wanna."

Coleman snorted, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled. He held the throttle levered-down, max'd out, keeping the hard slap of the boat as it bottomed from knocking it back even a millimetre.

His profile was sharp, the crook in the line of his long-ago broken nose, the strong solid line of his jaw. Clint thought he looked beautiful in that light, the edge of him dark against the hazy, glimmering lights of the eastern seaboard, the moonlight washing his skin out to alabaster, his eyes dark.

"Tha' bullet was for you, Coleman," Clint slurred.

"I'm aware." Coleman said.

"So tha' means, it means, it's in me so, you're safe now."

"Don't talk."

"You're safe. You don' have to hurt people anymore."

"Clint…"

"It's m' life, 'm give it to you, take it so you can protect people…"

"Shh, Clint, shh…"

Tears blurred his eyesight. "Promise me," he whispered.

 

***

 

After some dark time he came awake to a roar in his ears, blinding lights overhead and seawater exploding around them as something big and dark and powerful descended on top of them out of the blackness of the empty ocean. It was either the Angel of Death, Clint thought blearily, or a chopper. Coleman was waiving the torch frantically. There was a gabble of voices, hands grabbing and pulling, a sense of weightlessness. A warm hand on his forehead, the prick of a needle, a soft floating sensation and Coleman's gentle, raspy voice in his ear. 

As his eyes drifted shut the last thing he saw was someone leaning out of the 'copter bay with a rifle, putting a couple of rounds into the boat below the water line. He passed out.

 

***

 

Clint blinked back to consciousness looking up into the most beautiful pair of green eyes he'd ever seen.

He gaped for a moment then cleared his throat. "You're really pretty" he rasped, his throat raw, his vision still blurry. "Am I dead?"

The woman smiled. The smile had a predator-like quality, the delicate tip of one sharp canine catching the vivid red of her bottom lip. It was the same shade as her hair, the color of arterial blood.

"I like him," she said, "he's cute. A bit rough around the edges…"

Coleman appeared behind her. His face was expressionless but his eyes were warm. This was getting weirder and weirder.

"Are you going to keep him?" she asked, tilting her head, smiling at Clint like he was prey, like he might be fun to play with, just a little.

"We'll see," Coleman said. The woman moved aside, out of Clint's field of view. He concentrated on trying to blink his vision clear.

This didn't look anything like the Baptist Hospital of Miami, a place he pretty familiar with, actually. It was super high tech, for one thing. It smelled like a hospital. But there wasn't anyone else in the room that Clint could see and Dade County would never have put out for a private room for a career-cop detective like him. That drip was one hundred percent definitely ab-sa-tootly full of pain meds, though, Clint realized in a dreamy, distant way, squinting at the catheter in the back of his hand.

He finally got his eyes to cooperate, looked up. The man looking back at him was undoubtedly Coleman. And yet he wasn't. 

The differences were subtle but they were there. This man's suit was tailored—but constrained rather than flashy. His tie was conservative and striped, his shirt crisp and white. The earring was gone. His face wasn't warped into Coleman's faintly bored smirk. This face was strong but it was more open—a little tired, a little worried…a little relieved to see him?

And Clint had been right, Coleman's eyes were blue. They were blue and warm and they held Clint's gaze with an intensity that he found impossible to look away from. He got a little lost, looking up into those eyes.

Coleman smiled at him. It was a small smile, a tightening of the lips really, but it lit up his eyes and took Clint's breath away.

The woman came back with a cup of water. She handed it to Coleman, who took it and pressed the straw against Clint's lips. "Drink," he said.

Clint drained the cup. This shivery willingness to do whatever Coleman commanded was a little new and disturbing. Maybe Coleman just had that effect on people. He'd unpack all that when he was off the pain meds and could think straight.

"Thanks," he said.

He looked around. "You guys make more money that I thought."

Coleman and the red-haired woman exchanged a glance.

"We're not who you think we are," Coleman said.

"Oh you're the kind of criminals that don't care about money? Yeah, right. It must really bother you that you left all that cash with daSilva. Did you really shoot The Octopus? Good luck getting it back after all that."

"I got the money back," the red-haired woman said smugly. "Somewhere around $300K. A lot of small bills—they're still counting it."

"Three hundred?! I thought the payment was for…?"

"Oh, I took their money too. We've got an office party coming up."

Clint blinked. "How did daSilva just let you take his money?"

She smiled. Her smile blended amused indulgence with 'you are clearly an idiot' in equal parts. It was uncanny.

"What happened to daSilva?" Clint asked softly, mesmerized by that look like a mouse by a cobra.

"Drugs kill," she said sadly.

Clint shuddered. He wondered if it was okay for him to be both a little turned on and terrified at the same time. Decided it was since it had been happening to him all night long.

"Who _are_ you people? he whispered.

Coleman cleared his throat. "My name is Phil Coulson. This is Natasha Romanoff. We work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." 

"Wait, what? You're not…wait. Is that like… the Feds? Are you saying you're cops?!"

"Technically, 'agents.'" 

"But you're on the side of… that you're not… that you're…"

"That we're the good guys? Yes, we are."

"Speak for yourself," Romanoff said. She turned to go, shutting the door behind her.

Clint was aware his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. He waived a finger at Coleman. Er, Coulson. "You were undercover too!"

"Yes. We've been tracking alien technology that ended up on the black market after the Battle of New York. The mechanism daSilva was calling the Miami Device has been on our radar for some time. We suspected it would come to light soon and that he'd be the most likely candidate to get access to it. I was there to secure the device and discover as much as I could about the illicit network behind it. Finding out about The Octopus was just a bonus."

Coulson seemed to focus inwardly for a moment. "Tip of the iceberg there, I think," he said.

Clint wasn't sure he got all that. The details were hard to follow because the little bubble of hope that had bloomed in his chest was really distracting.

He couldn't help it, he laughed. "So we're both out of a job!"

"I still have a job. I may, actually, have an extra job. For you. If you want it."

"…what?"

"Your precinct believes you were lost with the boat. You are, of course, free to return and prove them wrong. Or… you could consider starting over with SHIELD. If covert work is something you like…"

"…what?" Clint was aware he was repeating himself but he honestly couldn't think of anything else to say.

Coleman took a breath. "When Director Fury gave me this badge," he said, tapping the heavy silver badge clipped to the belt at his hip, "I swore an oath. To serve when everything else fails, to be humanity's last line of defense. To be the shield.

'To protect people' was a promise I made a long time ago. But I made it again last night on a boat going nowhere fast out into the Atlantic." His smile was a little sad, a little tender.

"Last night you were the shield. I think you've been the shield your whole life, Clint. Maybe it's time to make it official."

Clint thought about his father's face, swollen and red with bourbon and anger. He thought about a small boy standing in front of his mother, arms out-flung, shaking so hard his teeth rattled, but still defiant.

"Would I…would I work with you?" Clint winced. He'd intended that to sound more casual.

"Maybe. Sometimes. Are you really a good shot?" For a moment Coleman was back, an arrogant turn on his lips.

Clint grinned. "Try me."

Coulson smiled back. "I intend to."

Clint examined the little bubble of hope. There was something wrong with it. He plucked at the weave of the blanket covering his chest.

"If you knew I was an undercover cop," he said, "was all this so you could…recruit me? The club, the…the tie thing on the dock, when…" Clint looked down, afraid to meet his eyes. "Was that…all it was?"

Coleman—Coulson—reached out a hand and gently, so gently, brushed a wisp of Clint's hair from his forehead, let calloused fingers trail along the side of Clint's face to his jaw, brushed a thumb across his lips. "No," he said.

 

 

 


End file.
